


Dream a Little Dream of Us

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Romance, Sheriarty - Freeform, Teenlock, Vampire!John, Vampire!Lock, flash fic compilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of flash fictions I have written by request on Tumblr.  Features Johnlock, Sheriarty, Adlock, and some non-pairing plots.  Fluff, smut, and everything in between.  Each chapter is dedicated to a different pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Johnlock

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be updated each time I complete a new flash fiction request. If you'd like to request a flash fiction, visit my page to get my Tumblr URL. Some of these might get updated into full-length fics so keep an eye out.  
> For scene changes within a fic, a line break will be used.  
> Fics will be separated using [xxx].

"Ow," Sherlock flinched as John pushed the needle through his skin again.

"Sorry," the doctor said honestly, "Next time don’t let the guy get a shot on you and I won’t have to stitch you up so thoroughly, yeah?"  

"The fact that he got a shot at all was the result of pure fortune and not due to any skill," Sherlock grumbled, "His grip on the handle was all wrong.  Had I not lost my footing on that crisp packet-"

"Excuses excuses," John teased lightly, crossing another stitch into Sherlock’ side.  "At least you got out of the way enough.  My heart was honestly in my throat when I rounded the corner and saw that." 

"Perhaps next time you should run faster," Sherlock commented, and was rewarded with a smack upside the head.  "Hey!  That’s a malpractice suit right there!"  

"You gonna sue the person that pays half your rent?"  John smirked up at him, then continued stitching up the wound.  He was happy to see it healing already, especially after his stubborn flatmate had refused to go to the hospital for it.   _"Why should I when I’ve got the best doctor they don’t have to offer sharing a bed with me?"_ Sometimes he wished he’d stop mentioning it so much in front of Lestrade, but Donovan’s looks of shock never cease to amuse him.  

When he finished, he cut the string and kissed the wound affectionately.  ”No deeper than this, okay?”  He looked up, his tone laced with sincerity.  ”If you’re gonna throw yourself in front of serial murders, no matter how incompetent they are with a knife, just don’t let them cut you any deeper than this.  Otherwise I’ll be dragging you to the hospital by your pretentious scarf myself.”

"It’s not pretentious," Sherlock defended.

John gave him a look, and ducked to kiss the wound again.  ”It is absolutely pretentious."  Another kiss slightly above the cut.  ”You only wear it because it makes you look cool.”  Another kiss, slightly higher on Sherlock’s side.  ”Just like that damned coat of yours.  You only wear it because you know it makes your legs look fantastic and looks cool when you run.”  He slowly kissed up his lover’s body until he could capture his lips between his own.  ”You’re the most pretentious git I've ever met, and you dress the part.”

"But I do so brilliantly."

"More brilliantly than anyone I’ve ever known."

They kissed a while longer, before Sherlock had to protest to the position.  ”I’m afraid this puts certain acts out of commission for a bit,” his eyes gleamed with mischief, “But I’m certain you’re dying for an excuse to get creative.”

John grinned.  ”Oh, god, yes.”

 

[xxx]

 

"I don’t want to hear about how goddamned intriguing this money launderer’s plots were!"  John snapped.  "I don’t care how sophisticated his cover was or how intricate the operation was.  I well and truly do not care."

"I saved a lot of people from losing their houses, their livelihoods," Sherlock reasoned, "I thought you’d understand."

"That’s never your motivation, don’t try to sweet talk me with what you _think_ I want to hear,” John growled.  ”All you had to do was text, Sherlock.  Then, you’re right, I would have understood.  We could have rescheduled.  But you didn’t.  You just blew it off.”

"I don’t understand why this is so important to you."  The second the words left his mouth he knew they were the wrong ones.  John’s expression when stony, before he laughed once, heartlessly, and turned on his heels to make for his bedroom.

Chasing after him immediately was a bad idea.  His right hand had clenched and relaxed, not his left, so he wanted to be followed, but not right away.  He was angry.  He needed a moment.  

Precisely three minutes and thirteen seconds later, Sherlock ascended the stairs, light on his feet, and opened the door slowly.  John was sitting on the far end of the bed, facing the wall, clearly running through breathing exercises.  Sherlock padded to the bed and sat on the other side, facing away from John, weary of his need for space.

"Social graces are lost on me, John," he started cautiously, "I’m afraid the sentiment of celebrating the anniversary of my birth is lost on me."

"I know," John responded solemnly.

"It’s just a number on a calendar," Sherlock continued.

"Not to me," John’s tone was not angry anymore.  It was… sad?  "It’s not just a number on a calendar to me, Sherlock.  People celebrate birthdays because they’re happy that that person is alive.  I’m happy you’re alive and I wanted to celebrate the fact that I had the fortune to meet you.  Does that make sense?"

"Do we not do that every day?" The detective asked honestly.  

A smile crept onto John’s face despite himself.  He looked over his shoulder, where he saw Sherlock straighten up immediately.  His teeth flashed affectionately as he crawled across the bed to hug Sherlock from behind, resting his head on his shoulder.  

"You’re making it very hard to be mad at you when you can ask that question so seriously," John remarked.

"So charming you into forgiveness is working, then?" Sherlock asked, tone practically dripping pride.

"Definitely," John kissed Sherlock’s cheek, then whispered against it, "But you’re still a wanker sometimes."

Sherlock grinned and turned to capture John’s lips, folding his legs up underneath him and guiding John backwards to lay atop him.  ”No need for masturbation,” he mumbled in between kisses, “Your hands are indefinitely better at getting me off than mine are.”

John giggled under him and pulled the detective tighter against him, wrapping one leg around his hip to lock their bodies together.  ”Don’t tempt me.”

Sherlock licked a stripe up his neck.  ”But that’s second phase of charming you into forgiveness.”

 

[xxx]

 

"You continue to stare at women when we are out on cases," Sherlock commented with a hint of venom as John climbed in to bed.

"Taking note of another human being’s existence at a crime scene does not count as me ‘staring,’ Sherlock," John countered.  "They’re the victim’s families, there to identify the corpses, remember?  I know their usefulness to you usually stops at identifying the body but they are actually people."

"And the one today was every check down the list of your exceedingly uncreative list of your type of woman."

"How do you know - nevermind.  What’s this about, anyway?"  Sherlock only clenched and unclenched his jaw, steepling his fingers under his chin. John sat up, propped on one arm, to face him.  "No, don’t give me that.  I can tell when you’re just doing that to get me to leave you alone.  Not this time.  You’re not honestly  _jealous_ of the fact that I found her attractive, are you?”  Sherlock still said nothing.  ”Sherlock, me finding her nice to look at doesn’t mean I’m going to  _do_ anything.  It’s just appreciating that someone is attractive.  It doesn’t mean anything.”

"She very obviously found you appealing as well," Was Sherlock’s response.  

"Did she?"  John sounded genuinely surprised, and more than a bit chuffed.

"Would you have initiated something had you known that?"

"No."

Sherlock rolled over suddenly, on top of John, pinning him by his wrists and looming over him like a deadly predator.  ”You are  _mine,_ John Watson,” he growled.  ”I do not take kindly to people assuming you’re available.  I do not like when women look at you.  I do not like when they assume that your smiles are flirtatious.  I do not like when you assume they’re  _not_ flirtatious.  I.  Do.  Not.  Share.”

The detective looked positively murderous.  ”How many on your scoreboard?”  John asked nonchalantly, referring to how many times Sherlock had noticed this.

"Twenty-three since we got together," Sherlock growled, "That’s  _too many,_ John.”

"My my, I have been so neglecting," John said warmly, and leaned up to lick a warm trail up from Sherlock’s collarbone to about midway up his neck, as far as he could reach while still pinned by his wrists.  "I had no idea this was tormenting you so much.  I’m impressed you kept so calm about it until now."

"Who says I have been?"

"Well you have been a bit testier with the witnesses recently.  How terribly dimwitted of me for not noticing."

"Stop smiling."

John’s grin only widened at that.  Slowly, and with little pressure, he lifted his knee to rub at Sherlock’s groin.  ”If it’s bothering you so much,” John teased, “Why don’t you put an end to their confusion.”  He leaned forward again to nip Sherlock’s skin playfully.  ”Mark me as yours, then, Sherlock Holmes.”

[xxx]

"I don’t understand," John said into the phone, the one that Moriarty planted for him at the beginning of this little scavenger hunt.  He had the key to release them both, and only an expanse of fifty feet separated him from the prizes of his endeavor: his best friend and his wife.  

"I know you don’t, Johnny-boy," Moriarty laughed, "You’re so dreadfully slow.  I’ll let Sherlock explain as soon as you get that awful gag out of his pretty mouth.  I owed him a fall last time.  Now I owe you one for him cheating.  Have fun with the guilt."  And the line disconnected, he suspected, for the final time that evening.  

John wasted no time and crossed the room to unlock the shackles that held them to the wall, then pulled the gags out of their mouths.  ”Sherlock, what’s wrong, are either of you hurt?”  He didn’t see any apparent injuries, but they may be hidden.

"Poison," Sherlock said, already sounding weak, "The hospital’s just around the corner.  Enough time to get us there."  John nodded and made to wrap his arms around Mary.  "Only one of us," the detective finished.

John stopped.  ”W-what?” 

"You can’t carry both of us.  Look at her, John, she’s already unconscious. Take her and go, now.  She’ll make it."

"Can you walk?"  He noted the blood around Sherlock’s ankle for the first time.  

Sherlock’s faint smile was empty.  ”He was thorough this time.  Just go, John, take her and go.”  

John bit his lip, his left hand trembling harder than it had since he first returned from war.  

 

When Sherlock’s eyes opened, he noted that he was emphatically  _not_ dead.  Death did not look like a hospital room.  Death did not feel like a body on fire or a hand over his own.  He turned his head.  Death definitely did not look like John Watson’s face, wet from tears.

"John?" He croaked, annoyed at how weak his own voice sounded.

"He made a mistake," John was very visibly fighting more tears, "Gave her more than she could handle.  She was already gone when I got to you."  A single tear escaped his will.  

Sherlock looked him over.  The right corner of John’s mouth was tight, the way it got when he was lying.  The doctor’s thumb stroked the top of his hand soothingly, as if to say _you, Sherlock.  I’d always choose you._

[xxx]

 

"John, make it stop!  I can’t think with all of this noise!"

"The only noise in this flat is you," John chuckled warmly as he brought his very sick flatmate a bowl of soup.  "C’mon, sit up and eat."  

"Why are you bringing me green liquid similar in sight and consistency to what is currently leaking out of my nasal passage," Sherlock groaned and turned over on the couch, his face buried in the back cushion.

"What a pleasant visual," John quipped.  "Stop being a drama queen.  The soup will help your throat."  

"Not my throat I’m concerned about.  Stop the noise!"

"What noise?"

"The infuriating static!  It’s like white noise in my head preventing me from thinking clearly!  I’ve more important things to do than mope around the flat all day."

"Really?"  John’s sarcastic tone got a pillow launched at his head.  He laughed aloud.  "Sherlock, you’re sick, of course your brilliant brain isn’t operating at full capacity.  Eat some soup, take a nap, drink the orange juice I bought you - and don’t just toss it out the window this time when you think I’m not looking, actually drink it - and you’ll be back to your optimal performance in two or three days."

"Can’t come soon enough," Sherlock grumbled, and finally sat up to eat.  John smiled, grabbed the remote to the television, and sat down next to him to watch something while he ate.

"Do  _not_ rot my brain further with this mindless drabble.”

"I’m your attending doctor and I say I deserve a telly break while you eat."

"Lazy doctor," Sherlock commented between slurps of soup.

"Insufferable patient," John said fondly.

 

[xxx]

 

"So you’re not going to see her again then?" Sherlock asked after John had finally taken a pause for breath.  He hadn’t been listening to the story at all, but he was good at pretending otherwise.

"No."  John could tell the detective hadn’t really been listening, but he let it slide like he always did.  "Absolutely not.  Far too clingy.  And anyway, she was kind of a rubbish kisser."

Sherlock glanced up from his laptop for a microsecond before returning his gaze to the screen.  ”I did not realize there was a way to kiss poorly.”

John looked at him for the first time since he’d started his date horror story.  ”Well, you know, when they don’t know how to keep their nose out of the way or when your teeth hit or when they use too much tongue.  When they can’t get the rhythm of it down.”  Sherlock said nothing, just continued to pretend to be interested in his email.  ”I mean, you have to have had at least one bad kiss in your life.”

"Never kissed anyone," Sherlock commented simply.

"You’ve-" John stopped himself before he said something idiotic.  He was aware that Sherlock wasn’t interested in all that, but… He’d never even been  _kissed?_ "Not even a little peck?  The ones no one really ever counts?"  He asked in a way he hoped did not sound insulting.

"Nope," Sherlock met his gaze.  "Why, is that odd?"

"Well," John fidgeted uncomfortably, "I mean I know it’s not really your thing but, you’ve never even been a little curious?"

Sherlock regarded him for a moment.  ”If it’s unrelated to the work I usually don’t care.”

"But what about when you were in school, before you had the work?"  Sherlock looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "I mean it’s just, these sort of motivations are so frequent in what we do.  I figured I’d least get a ‘for science’ response out of you."  John saw color rise to the detective’s face. Sherlock was actually  _blushing._ "Sorry," he apologized, "Wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.  It’s no big deal, you know.  It’s all fine."

"Do you think I should?"  Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Hm?"

"Do you think it’s necessary information, a necessary experience in order to better understand certain motivations?"

"I - well, it’s how I know them so well."

Sherlock stood and strode over to John.  ”Then show me.”

"Whoa, back up," John put a little space between them, "I wasn’t trying to imply-"

"We’re not having this conversation, namely because I already know that you’re going to deny your attraction to me and every word of it will be a lie. It’s futile to lie to me and you know it, so let’s skip over the boring realization."  Sherlock paused.  "I imagine I will likely be your exact definition of a poor kisser at first, but I’m a quick study."

"You wh- nevermind."  John squared his shoulders, knowing damn well that a Sherlock with a puzzle in front of him was better to appease than to argue with.  Before he could think too much about it, he pulled Sherlock down closer to him and locked their lips in a closed-mouth kiss.

Mrs. Hudson walked through the open door to their flat just in time to get an eye-full of the two of them.  ”Hoo-hoo,” she called.  

John jumped immediately away.  Sherlock stood remained perfectly calm as he turned to face her, greeting her with a warm smile.  ”Good morning, Mrs. Hudson.”  

"Morning boys," She sang, placing the tea tray in her hands down on a table.  

"I, um, I’ll be off then, Sherlock," John stammered as he grabbed his coat, "Milk run, Mrs. Hudson, sorry.  Back in a tick."

"Of course dear," She waved as he left, then rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s outstretched hand.  He beckoned with it, and she reluctantly handed him over a fiver.  "I really thought it would take more than one conversation," she grumbled.

"You should know better than to bet against my observational skills, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said proudly, and started to prepare his tea.

 

[xxx]

 

John was suddenly thankful for the fact that Mary insisted the two of them get a car after their marriage, because right now he was not in the mood to wait for a cab to go the speed limit to Baker Street.  Not after the text Sherlock sent him ten minutes ago.

He burst through the door of 221B and up the stairs in record time from his new flat.  He found Sherlock sprawled out on the couch in a similar fashion to his first night at Baker Street.  The only exception to the parallel was that Sherlock, this time, looked worryingly ill.  He wasn’t just relaxed, he was weak, and paler than John had ever seen him.

"Sherlock?" John called and strode to his side on the couch.  Barely a groan in response.  The doctor dropped to his knees to take his friend’s pulse.  "Sherlock?"

"John," he heard Sherlock breathe.  

Relief washed over him, but it didn’t last after his pulse reading.  Forty-six beats a minute; dangerously low.  ”Sherlock, what did you take?”  The detective turned his head away.  ”I don’t care what you’ve done just tell me.”

"I’m sorry," Sherlock whispered.

"I’m not mad at you," John said soothingly, "I’m just concerned about getting you help.  Tell me what you did, Sherlock."

"Heroin," came the broken answer.

John’s heart dropped.  ”…Heroin?”  He echoed.  Sherlock nodded once, the movement barely visible.  The doctor reached into his pocket for his phone.  ”I’m calling an ambulance.”

Sherlock was up and snatching the phone out of John’s hand in the blink of an eye.  He tossed it across the room.  ”Sherlock!”  John snapped.

"They won’t let me enjoy it," he growled, and laid down again.

"Sherlock you need to go to a hospital.  You can barely keep your eyes open.  Your pulse is too weak."

Sherlock’s fingers wrapped loosely around John’s at his side.  ”I didn’t mean to upset you,” He whispered.  ”I needed to stop thinking.  It was there.  You weren’t here to tell me not to.  I needed to stop thinking.”

"Why?"  John had never heard Sherlock object to thinking before.

"It was you," Sherlock sounded like he was holding back tears, "All you.  Your face in my head.  Your voice in my ears.  Reminding me that I’d lost you to someone else.  I hurt you and it cost me you and now I’m doing it again and god John so sorry…"

John looked at him sideways.  Was it just the drugs talking?  ”Sherlock,” he proceeded with caution, “You haven’t lost me.  I’m right here.”  

"Lost you," The detective repeated.  "My fault.  Hurting you now.  Again.  You should go."

"I’m not going anywhere.  Someone needs to monitor you.  And since you’re stubborn, it’s gonna be me."

Sherlock turned his face towards John then.  Yes, definitely holding back tears.  And somewhat failing.  The hand wrapped around John’s fingers was lifted into the air to rest on his cheek.  John started, but did not prevent it.  Nor did he fight when Sherlock dragged him down to meet his lips.  

His first thought when Sherlock kissed him was how alarmingly soft the other man’s lips were; softer than he had previously imagined.  His second thought was how absolutely insane this was.  His third was how much of an idiot he’d been not to see this.  It was the third thought that pushed his state of mind into heart-wrenching guilt, and caused him to kiss back almost feverishly.  No tongue, just glorious slides of lips against lips, as he tried to express his own apologies to Sherlock in ways words could not.  

"John," Sherlock finally whispered against his mouth.  He hummed in response.  "Call an ambulance."  John jumped back in alarm.  The detective’s eyes had glossed over.  "I think I overdosed.”

 

[xxx]

 

_(Fair warning, this fic contains slight spoilers for series 3.)_

The first time it happened, Sherlock dismissd it.  He knew he was imagining it.  The second time, it was a little harder to ignore.

As he was calming down from a lashing about two weeks ago, he’d heard John’s voice.  Just a very quick flashback to their first night together.   _"It’s all fine,"_ He’d said.  At first Sherlock was confused, then slightly alarmed, then fine again as he rationalized his way out of it.  He was reminiscing friendlier times as a means of coping.  He was not actively hallucinating.

This time, he could no longer deny the potency of the sound.  It was emphatically  _not_ just a memory.   _"You don’t feel like that, what are you doing?"_ (Not) John said to him rather harshly as another tear trickled down his face.  In truth, the crying was more from the severe pain than from any emotional state, but just hearing John’s (not) voice (not) digging in to him so cruelly caused him to silently weep in the dark, dank cell he was being held in.  He was thankful his abusers would not be back for another 45 minutes or so.  These ones kept on a rather tight schedule.

When they came back, they were obviously in a bitter mood.  His plan must have been working.  They had a whip with them this time.  It bit into his skin viciously.   _"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me,"_ he heared.  Adrenaline shot through his veins; he could feel it lighting his skin on fire.  The next crack of the whip came, but he did not feel it.  He smiled.  

That night he broke free right on schedule, and even stopped by the facility’s first aid room to get some disinfectant and bandages for himself.  (Not) John had sounded rather concerned about them.  His doctor voice whenever Sherlock neglected his own health was just another thing about his friend that he missed bitterly.

 

Another raid, another predicted kidnapping, another god-forsaken whip.  He is starting to wonder if everyone in Moriarty’s network has some sort of whip-related fetish.  

 _"Sherlock,"_ he hears not-John’s concerned voice again as the imbecile handling the whip like an amateur finally leaves him alone.

"Hello, John," he says aloud, and smiles with a heave of exhaustion.  The voice is not real, and he knows it, but it has an interesting effect on him.  Already the pain is less noticeable.

_"Where does it hurt?"_

Sherlock laughs once.  ”A little bit everywhere.”

_"I wish you’d take better care of yourself."_

He sighed.  ”I wish you were here to do it for me.”

 

Every kidnapping was anticipated, and every one resulted in a beating of some sort.  Every beating yielded John Watson’s voice in his head.  It made Sherlock almost look forward to the eventuality of his captures.  He tried talking to John other times during the past year and a half, but he never came.  John only came to him when he was in pain.  How very like a doctor, indeed.

"I love you," Sherlock says to the air, head hung in exhaustion, blood dripping from his battered lips.  This one is more fond of brass knuckles. One of his ribs is cracked, he's certain.  That is going to be annoying.

 _"You don’t know how to love,"_ not-John says with an air of disappointment.

"You taught me," Sherlock says, desperate to hear John say it back.   _Just say it back, please, so I can get the hell out of here.  I’m going to need adrenaline if my rib is going to cease being a problem._

_"Do you really mean that?"_

"With every fibre of my being, all that’s left of it."

_"Then why did you leave?"_

Sherlock cringes, coughs.  ”I swear to you I’m coming back.  I always intended to come back.  Help me get out of here, John, and I swear on the life I still posses that I’ll be back to you soon.”

 _"You’re absolutely mad,"_ not-John says fondly.  ”And I love it.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open.  There is John, kneeling in front of him, smiling warmly and staring in to his eyes.  ”On with it, then, I’m waiting for you.”

Adrenaline floods his veins.

 

[xxx]

 

John was panting, trying to form coherent thoughts and remind himself why this was a bad idea.  Having sex in the parlor of their flat in the middle of the day definitely fell under  _bit not good._ A client could come up at any minute.  But with Sherlock writhing below him, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders while offering himself in such a desperate manner, he was finding it rather difficult to focus.  And - though he would never admit it aloud - the idea of getting caught claiming Sherlock was unreasonably arousing.  With a moan of surrender, John leaned down and captured the detective’s lips between his own.  Sherlock opened his mouth in invitation, and John slipped his tongue past those impossibly soft, supple lips to taste his lover’s desire.  Sherlock yielded beneath him, all the while making quick work of both of their clothes.

Undoing John’s belt was a bit difficult from Sherlock’s position, trapped between a rapidly-hardening John and the coffee table, so John finally straightened up to do it for him.  ”Tell me you’ve got lube stashed somewhere on you,” he panted as he pushed his trousers and pants down.  Sherlock grinned again, that devious look, and reached down to retrieve the bottle from the pocket of his dressing gown.  Of course he’d planned for this.

"Ta," John said as he took the offered bottle, and rushed to prepare Sherlock.  At this point, he knew exactly how much the detective needed.  Judging by the sounds his fingers elicited, he was already ready mentally.  But he didn’t want to hurt him, so preparations were still necessary.

"Fuck John," Sherlock moaned.  John laughed; Sherlock only swore when his mind was completely shot.  "Just get  _on_ with it already.”

Happy to oblige, John retracted his fingers and slicked himself liberally, then buried himself in his desperate lover in one smooth stroke.  Sherlock’s choked gasp-cry bypassed his ears and went straight to his cock.  The air quickly filled with sounds of skin slapping against skin and the telltale moaning of two people in the throes of pleasure.  

When footsteps sounded up the stairs, neither of them noticed.  They did notice, however, when the door to their flat burst open and a certain Detective Inspector stepped in side.  ”Sherlo-” Greg Lestrade made to say and quickly stumbled over the word.

"Oh, hello Les-  _oh fuck John”_  John’s thrust as Lestrade entered the room happened to hit his prostate, and he came right then and there with a shout.  John looked up in horror and made to pull away immediately, but Sherlock trapped him with his legs and arms.   _"Don’t you dare move,"_ he gasped out through his orgasm.  John was flushed all over, no longer just from the heat of the moment.  Lestrade, too, had turned a fascinating shade of red. 

When Sherlock finished, John scrambled up, hastening to adjust his clothes and clean himself off.  Sherlock, calm as ever, simply retrieved his discarded dressing gown and wrapped it around his nude form, stomach still painted with the evidence of their activities.  ”What’s happened then, Lestrade?  Something worth interrupting us, I hope.  As you can see we’re a bit busy.”

 

[xxx]


	2. Johnlock AUs

_Vampire!Lock_

Sherlock hugged him impossibly closer, pressing John’s face into the side of his neck in silent approval.  John smiled, a foreign but welcome warmth fluttering in his chest and in his stomach.  Sherlock wanted this, wanted to be with him forever like this.  

"How long will it last?"  Sherlock whispered.

"Two days," John answered just as quietly, "And when you wake up you’ll be able to see more than you ever have."

Sherlock chuckled.  ”Somehow I doubt that.”

 _Self assured bastard,_ John thought fondly.  Tentatively, he licked a stripe up sherlock’s exposed throat, feeling for his pulse point and just for the sake of tasting that exquisite skin that had smelled so tempting to him since the day they first met.  He felt his teeth extending already.  He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating slightly faster in its cage, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.  He would have been more concerned if Sherlock  _weren’t_ currently a little apprehensive.  

As gently as was possible, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s tantalizing throat.  He felt the detective gasp, but he pushed that back as well.  Because this was amazing.  Sherlock’s blood in his mouth, on his tongue, after so many months of beating himself to stay away from it.  He swallowed a generous gulp before releasing the venom that would begin Sherlock’s transformation.  Once he’d released enough into the detective’s bloodstream he pulled away, licking the wound clean and healing it instantly.

"You got greedy," Sherlock quipped.

"Couldn’t be helped," John admitted, "You tasted too good."  

"So, how long until-" Sherlock couldn’t even finish his sentence before the venom knocked him out.  John caught him with a smile on his lips and moved him to the bedroom, where Sherlock would lay for 48 hours while the transformation took effect.  He would sleep through the whole thing.  

Except he didn’t sleep through the whole thing.  Sixteen hours in, John saw him twitch.  Not one of the normal random neural firings that sometimes happened during nervous system reprograming, but a jerk of his whole arm and a knitting in his brow.  He was awake.  Or he was at least conscious, which means he could feel the transformation happening.  And he would be in severe pain.  

John bit his finger.  He wasn’t prepared for this.  He’d heard of a select few humans waking up during the process, but it was so rare he’d never entertained the possibility of it happening.   _Leave it to Sherlock to be yet another rare fucking exception,_ he thought to himself with a mix of panic and fondness.  He took the detective’s changing hand and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"You damn stubborn git," He whispered affectionately, "I told you to you were supposed to sleep."  He traced the shell of Sherlock’s ear with his tongue.  "Just relax.  Let the venom take you under again.  You need to sleep or you’ll be in pain through the whole thing.  Calm down, Sherlock.  Relax.  I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.  Nothing’s gonna happen to you while you’re out, and I promise, as soon as you sleep this time, you’ll never have to again."  

The erratic heartbeat beneath him slowed back down eventually to an unconscious one.  8 hours later, the strength of that pounding muscle started to decline.  At the 48 hour mark, it pumped the detective’s precious blood one last time, and stopped.  Then he opened his eyes for the first time in his new body.  

"Good morning," came John’s familiar voice from next to him.

 

[xxx]

 

_Teen!lock_

"You’re adorable, you know that," Sherlock remarked, only somewhat intended as an insult.  

"Hey, not all of us dress like you do on a regular basis," John snapped, tugging awkwardly at the cuffs on the dress shirt he bought just for the occasion.  "The way you dress you don’t belong at a public college."

"I know," Sherlock said, irritation evident in his voice, "But my parents refused to send me to a private school.  Told me I needed the company of children like me, not the spoiled children of the snobbish one percent."  

"Oh?"  John asked as he picked at his tie, very clearly not accustomed to wearing one.  Sherlock’s gaze fell to his fingers.  

"If you had tied that properly it wouldn’t be irritating you so much."  He stood, rounded to John’s side of the table, and untied the knot at his neck. 

"Sherlock," John protested.

"Hush.  You wanted a boring dinner date at a high end restaurant, so I gave it to you.  You wore this to fit in, so I’m helping you accomplish that."  He finished retying it and sat down, admiring his handiwork.  "There.  Now you’re adorable and only slightly out of place."

"Wanker," John chided.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin, propping his elbows up on the table to support his head.  ”So tell me, John Watson,” he started in mockery of the usual first date conversation, “What makes you want to go to medical school?”

 

[xxx]


	3. Sheriarty

Jim tiptoed up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.  Well, it wouldn’t be his flat for much longer.  He would not put up with his lover living in this shack of a home in this pinprick on the map of London.  Why would he need to when they were going to rule the world together very, very soon?

He pushed the cracked door open with a single finger to find Sherlock staring out the window, stoic and unmoving.  

"Time to go, my dear," he did not hide the smirk in his voice.  Sherlock did not move.  "Sherlock, we’re on the clock, love!"

"He’s gone," was the only response Jim received.

"Your pet?"  He resisted the urge to lash out.  Sherlock was still wavering on the idea of going with him.  "We anticipated that, dearheart.  You didn’t really think you’d be able to keep him, did you?"

"He wasn’t my pet," Sherlock’s jaw was clenched, "He was my friend."

“‘Was’ being the operative tense here.  He’s a soldier  _and_ a doctor.  Definitively on the side of the angels.  The two of you are are incompatible in your moral standpoints.”  He strode over to where Sherlock was standing to whisper in his ear.  ”You would have gotten bored of him eventually, you know you would have.  But you’ll never tire of me, will you?”  He snaked his arms around the detective.  ”Because we’re just alike, you and I.”  

Sherlock shook himself free.  ”And what happens when  _you_ decide  _I’m_ boring?  When you tire of having a ‘live-in’ one?  When you denigrate me to nothing more than a pet myself and get a new one?  At least I was his equal.”

Moriarty laughed.  ”Equal?  Sherlock, dear, don’t insult yourself.  You are better than he will ever be.  You’re brilliant.  Absolutely brilliant.  He was holding you back from your true potential in his inability to keep up.”  He stepped forward again and cupped Sherlock’s face, stroking one of those delectable cheekbones.  ”I’m going to make you shine.”

Sherlock sighed.  His eyes roamed Jim’s grinning face, those dark, gleaming eyes, and then he leaned forward and kissed him in acceptance of the future he was offering.

 

[xxx]

 

"I thought you didn’t like getting your hands dirty," Sherlock commented with a hint of cynicism.

"Oh, I don’t," Jim assured him, "Especially not like this.  Have you ever tried getting blood stains out of a white silk shirt?  Impossible.  But I always insist that they show me their work.  They get rewarded for creativity."  Jim smiled at the paused video on his computer screen; some member of his own network who had leaked information about a drug cartel in one of the lower rings of the organization, strapped to a chair, getting tortured by one of his more vicious employees.  "This one never disappoints me."

Sherlock laughed once, a hollow, chilling sound.  ”Wonder why you haven’t slept with him yet.”

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes," Jim turned to him, wearing an expression of mock-appallment.  "Are you honestly jealous of this man’s standing in my eyes?" Sherlock said nothing, only averted his eyes.  Jim grinned and pulled Sherlock’s head in to the crook of his shoulder, planting a kiss on his temple.  "Oh love, you’ve nothing to worry about.  HIs skills as an artist are impressive, I mean look at how he’s handling that blade, but other than that his intellect barely reaches above that of a doorhandle.  You’re much more stimulating to me, in every way.  I could never be attracted to something so… dull.  No, darling, you’re much more fun than this one could ever hope to be."

Sherlock grinned, picked his head up, and planted a chaste kiss on his lover’s lips.  ”Part of me cannot help but feel inadequate in the face of your more… colorful kinks.”  He licked into Jim’s mouth once teasingly.  

"Oh Sherlock," Jim laughed, "Who needs those when I’ve got you."  The footage was forgotten as they toppled to the floor, Sherlock determined to prove that he was the best thing Jim would ever know.

 

[xxx]

 

_Kid!lock_

"It’d be easy," Jimmy quipped, self-assured as usual.  "Ruling the world really wouldn’t be all that hard, as long as you knew what you were doing."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and focused on his book.  Mycroft had bet him he couldn’t finish it in a week, and frankly the ridiculous pirate’s tale was more realistic than what Jimmy was saying.

"No one person can control every country," Sherlock said, "It’d be too much to manage and too easy to get rid of him once they got tired of a tyrant."

"Not if he came in to power too quickly, but if you start slow then they’ll never know what hit them.  That’s gonna be me someday, just you wait."

Sherlock scoffed.  ”Yeah?  How ya gonna do it?”

"Easy," Jimmy sang, "I’ll start with the criminals.  If you run the criminal world, you run most of the rest of it anyway.  All the leaders of the world do bad stuff.  It’s in the news constantly."

"And I’ll be looking for your face in it when you eventually fail."  Sherlock took his book and walked across the playground to prove that he was done listening.  Jimmy was ridiculous, and he had a bet with his brother to win.

 

[xxx]

 

_(Fair warning, this fic contains slight spoilers for series 3.)_

"Admit it," Moriarty growled seductively, "I’m the most interesting thing you’ll ever know."

"You think higher of yourself than you ought," Sherlock dodged.

"If you truly think so little of me then why are you here at all?"  Moriarty asked, circling him and inching closer with every step.  "Why come and find me again?"

"Because London was supposed to be rid of you.  You don’t put a bullet in your own brain and walk away from it."

"You also don’t get to jump off a building and walk away from it, and yet here we are," Jim sang, "The two impossible men who fooled the whole world, and each other.  We faked it at each other.  But we were made for each other, Sherlock, that’s why you came back here.  As soon as you heard I was alive you came running back to me.  You need me."

"I came here to kill you myself, since you’re apparently pants at it," Sherlock growled.

"Oooh, touchy, but I think you’ve killed enough high-profile people for a while.  Best not just yet, yeah?"  Moriarty purred and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock flinched.  "See?  You let me touch you.  You even liked it.  The hairs on the back of your neck are all angled towards me."  He smirked.  

"I loathe you." 

"That’s what makes it so hot."

Moriarty licked Sherlock’s upper lip in invitation, and Sherlock surrendered.  Completely and utterly surrendered to the madman.  He caught the killer in his arms and pressed their mouths together, plundering his mouth with his own tongue, licking, tasting, exploring.  Jim yielded to him enthusiastically, and wasted no more time.  He pushed Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders, pulled the knot of his scarf loose, and made quick work of the detective’s buttons.  Before he got a chance to really look, however, the detective grabbed him and slammed him against the closest wall, pressing his chest to Jim’s back and licking his neck desperately.

"My, my, demanding aren’t we," Jim sang teasingly.

"Shut up, or I’ll make good on my earlier threat," Sherlock warned as he worked to remove Moriarty’s belt.

"Oh, now that  _would_ be exciting.  Would you still have your way with me after I was dead?”

"Disgusting."

"Maybe, but you are in a rather bloodthirsty mood, aren’t you?  I don’t doubt you when you say you came here to kill me.  I’m getting hard just thinking about it.  Go ahead and rough me up a little, dear, I promise I’ll enjoy it."  

"I despise you."

Jim grinned as his cheek was pushed harder against the wall, and pushed his hips out in open invitation.  ”That’s what’s going to make it good.”

 

[xxx]

 

_(Fair warning, this fic contains slight spoilers for series 3.)_

He’d promised he’d be here.  Night clubs were normally the last place one would fine the consulting detective, unless it was absolutely necessary for a case.  And even then, he’d managed to avoid them almost every time.  Night clubs and bars were the breeding grounds of all of the worst traits of mankind; he made it his goal in life to never return to one again after his last trip.  But Moriarty had insisted, and he needed to know.  He needed to know how the madman had survived putting a bullet through his own brain.

He had been sitting at the bar for almost half an hour now, waiting for that familiar face to find its way to him, like it always managed to.  His eyes scanned the crowd relentlessly, but he still did not see him.  He was tempted to order a drink out of pure annoyance, but he needed his senses sharp.

"Hello sexy."  Not the first time that night he heard that remarked in his direction, but the first time it was uttered by a familiar voice.  He turned and looked.  There was Jim Moriarty, in the flesh.

"Back from the dead," Sherlock remarked.

"You’re not lookin’ so bad yourself," Jim said, raking his eyes over Sherlock from head to toe.  "The pavement didn’t mar your gorgeous face at all.  I’m relieved."  

"Biting a bullet and living to tell, though, bit more impressive," Sherlock said.  "I’ve tried to work it out, but can’t.  Care to enlighten me?"

Jim only smiled and held out his hand.  Sherlock glared at it.  ”I’m not telling you without a dance.”

"Why?"

"Because this is the first time in all the years I’ve known you that I  _actually_ have the upper hand, and I intend to use it.  Dance with me, so I can dazzle you twice.”

Sherlock glared at his offered hand a while longer, before reluctantly looking up and accepting it.  Jim dragged him on to the dance floor; Sherlock dug in his heels before they could get to the center.  ”Here is fine.”  To emphasize his point, he pulled Jim in close by his hips and started rocking to the rhythm.  As he predicted, Jim delightedly took the bait, grinding against the detective’s groin in the most obscene way, like all the other partners around them.  The club was a gay club, so Sherlock had expected this outcome, but it did not stop it from being irritating.  

Jim’s hands roamed his body liberally, groping and fondling and lingering in some areas for a bit too long at times.  ”Just double-checking that you’re not going to stab me while my defenses are down,” He chided lightly.  Sherlock said nothing.  ”Oh come on, darling,” Jim moaned dramatically, “You could at least  _pretend_ to enjoy it.”

"A bit difficult to fake the enjoyment you’re looking for," Sherlock remarked smoothly.

Jim laughed.  ”True.”

"So are you going to put out or continue teasing me?"  Sherlock asked.

"My my, impatient aren’t we?"  Jim giggled.  "I promise to disclose all, if you earn it.  Prove that you’re worthy of such confidential information." 

Silently rolling his eyes, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim’s waist in a quick hug before rubbing his hands up to his shoulders, giving them a squeeze, and then feeling their way back down his body, one hand to rest on his hip, the other to brush against the top of a thigh.

"Oh my," Jim sighed, "You really  _do_ want to know, don’t you?”

"Yes," Sherlock leaned in close to whisper the word in his ear.  His memory flashed, bizarrely, to an absolutely horrendous movie John had been watching in the living room once, where a man and woman were dancing and he nibbled on her earlobe, which she apparently responded to quite well.  He mimicked the behavior on Jim’s ear before standing straight again.

Jim giggled again.  It was off-putting, something so innocent coming from someone so dangerous.  ”Very well.  Let me tell you the story of how I died…”

 

[xxx]


	4. Adlock

"Sherlock," Irene sighed as she stretched her legs out on the bed.  Awake, this time, not simply mumbling in her sleep.  He hummed a noncommittal response.  "You’re supposed to be sleeping."

"So are you," he grumbled back, not looking up from the laptop situated atop his crossed legs.  Sleeping was still a tedious task, and while spending nights in the bedroom was more pleasant with a bed partner, there were more important matters that required his attention than unconsciousness.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder.  His fingers flied over the keys, still tapping them as silently as possible.  ”Go back to sleep,” he told her softly.

Smiling, she sat up and snatched his computer, folding it closed and setting it on her nightstand.  He shot her a glaring look, to which she only grinned wider.  She took him by the shoulders and guided him back down on the pillows, resting her head on his bare chest.  ”Not without my favorite pillow.”

"Your favorite pillow isn’t against tossing you aside to get back to work," he growled.

"Yes he is," she half sang.  He didn’t argue.

 

[xxx]

 

Irene grabbed a knife from the kitchen before going to answer the knock on her door.  A very convincing new identity was, for most criminals, reason enough to never be nervous while answering the door again.  It was also the reason half of them ended up dead before the age of 40.  She wasn’t stupid.

When she opened the door, her heart leapt to her throat.  Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the doorframe, bleeding profusely from multiple gashes.  ”Sherlock?” She gasped.

"I apologize for the unannounced intrusion," he panted, "But I need your help."

"Come in, love."  He took one step and nearly collapsed; she caught him under the arms and half dragged, half carried him inside.  She removed his coat, scarf, jacket, and shirt for him, and soaked the wounds while they waited for the water to boil to sterilize the needle he would need to sew himself up.  "Still have a thing against hospitals?"  She asked lightly.

"They’re all still incompetent, so yes," Sherlock breathed.

"How come John’s not with you?" She asked.  

He looked at her before returning his attention to the wound he was in the middle of closing.  ”Because I planned to come and see you after I finished this job.”

She smiled.  ”Where does John think you are?”

"Visiting my parents."

She gave him a look.  ”He fell for that?”

"Mycroft conveniently called and demanded that I did a few days before I got the case, and he overheard."  

"Always so resourceful," She complimented as he finished.  She helped him tie the knot and dabbed at the remaining blood with rubbing alcohol.  He hissed sharply.  "Sorry, love."  He feigned a look of betrayal, which she wiped of his face with a kiss.  He leaned in again when she tried to pull away, and the last couple of gashes got neglected a while longer in favor of more pleasurable activities.

 

[xxx]

 

 


	5. Non-Pairings

"Your father doubts my capabilities as a caretaker," Sherlock said softly into the peach fuzz atop the infant’s head.  He held her securely yet gently in his arms, head resting comfortably on his shoulder, as he paced to and fro in front of the sofa, examining the evidence in front of his eyes.  Mary and John were away for the weekend, and while their request that he look after their daughter inhibited him from running through the streets of London, it did not mean he did not have to ignore casework altogether.  This one was a matter of interpreting the paper evidence, not facing down the barrels of any guns, so he could do it while simultaneously caring for the newborn.

"I suppose given my tendency to neglect certain aspects of maintenance of my own self, this is not an unreasonable assumption.  But the detailed list of how to precisely prepare hot milk is a bit insulting, don’t you think?  I am aware of how to use a stove; I use it to bring solutions to a boil often.  It’s necessary for certain chemical reactions."  He petted her head.  "You’re a bit young for that at the moment, but if you’re anything like your mum, you’ll have it down by age eight.  I understood basic chemistry by age four, but I have a rather remarkable mind."  He smiled.  "Your father certainly thinks so."

The infant stirred in his arms, nestling her cheek into his neck.  He grinned and adjusted the towel he had thrown over his shoulder to prevent drool from damaging his jacket.  Spencer Hart was not the most appropriate attire for caring for six-month-olds, but it was all he owned.  ”Careful,” he whispered, “That’s worth more than your parents’ rent.”  She hiccuped in response, and he rubbed her back soothingly.  ”Breathing air is a bit odd, I know.  I imagine the womb was more satisfactory, when you did not have to worry about which path it took.  I find it a bit dull, personally, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

He was silent for a while as he read over the evidence tacked to his Victorian wallpaper, and the life in his arms started to relax more and more, her breathing growing shallow and even.  He continued to walk with her, careful and deliberate in his strides so as not to wake her, but keep her blissfully asleep without risk of shaking her fragile body too forcefully.  He had read of too many incidents of infants becoming injured, brain damaged, or worse because their parents rocked them too hard.  He would let no such thing happen to the amazing creature in his arms.  People were absolutely intolerable, but she wasn’t a person yet, not really.  She had none of the traits that made people so insufferable yet.  And with parents as intelligent as hers (and a godfather as knowledgable of the shortcomings of society as him), she never would.  

"I must admit you’re a better listener than the skull," he whispered into her peach fuzz again, mostly to himself, and kissed the smooth skin there affectionately, before deciding it was time to set her down in the cot Mary and John had brought to his flat before going on their way.  "Certainly better than your father," he chuckled to himself.  He reached in to the cot to pet her head one last time.  "Sleep well, Shirley."

 

[xxx]

 

_AU - Role Reversal_

This man was utterly baffling to him.  Sherlock Holmes had always considered himself rather good at his own trade.  He’d done well at University and graduated among the top of his class when he got his degree as a forensic technician.  He wasn’t vain - and certainly not as conceited as some other forensic technicians for the Yard - but the man in front of him was leaving him speechless.  One look at the fresh crime scene and he could already see struggle, the cause of death, and was explaining what the autopsy would reveal before he’d even preformed it.  

"You can tell all of that just by the strangulation marks?"  He asked, completely dumbfounded.  Strangulation marks had never told him anything like that before.

Doctor Watson turned and looked at him for the first time as he put his gloves on.  He looked confused, as if Sherlock had appeared out of nowhere.  He instantly shied under the medical examiner’s intense gaze.  

"S-sorry," Sherlock stammered, "It’s just… How… I mean… That’s brilliant!"

Doctor Watson skipped a beat.  ”You think so?”

"Absolutely," Sherlock said a little more confidently, "I mean you haven’t even touched him and you already know what they should be looking for."  He hesitated.  "Um, alright if I get to work on him now?  They said you had first go." 

"By all means," The sharper-dressed man gestured to the corpse, taking a step back.  Sherlock crouched next to the dead man and began dusting for prints around the throat.  It was usually a long shot because of the oils already present on the victim’s skin, but sometimes if they were lucky (and very careful) they could pull a partial from the bruising, assuming they forgot to wear gloves. 

"You might want to get a joystick mouse and a wrist pad for your computer," Doctor Watson said suddenly from next to him.

Sherlock jumped a bit.  ”I-I’m sorry?”

"The way you’re holding the brush," Doctor Watson nodded to Sherlock’s right hand, "Carpel tunnel syndrome.  I see it a lot.  Unsurprising given your field of work.  Joystick mice and wrist pads help to relieve the effects of carpel tunnel."

"Oh," Sherlock said.  He hadn’t even considered the fact that he might have it.  His wrists were usually tired at the end of the day, but whose weren’t?

"John Watson," the medical examiner held out his gloved hand, which Sherlock shook with his own equally gloved one.

"Sherlock Holmes," he offered, and smiled warmly.  John returned it a little less confidently, but Sherlock saw sincerity behind it.   _Now here’s a Medical Examiner I could definitely get along with,_ he thought with a burst of warmth in his chest.

 

[xxx]

_AU - Sherlock is a coma patient who dreamed their adventures_

John Watson sometimes asked himself why he bothered doing this.  He always did it on his own time, never while he was on the clock, and it sometimes resulted in him being late for the dinners his girlfriend generously prepared for him after his long shifts.  But then he’d pass by the coma ward again, see that single, solitary bed in the far corner, and remember.

Sherlock Holmes, whoever he was, never had any visitors.  The first day that he was brought down, a tall, sharply-dressed man carrying an umbrella ordered that he practically be quarantined; no one was to touch him but his attending doctor.  John wasn’t his attending, but he felt sympathy for the unconscious man.  In the two years that he had been in this hospital, his bills paid in advance for the estimated five that he would be here, not a single visitor came to sit by his bed.  No worried parents, no hysterical girlfriend or boyfriend, no siblings; it was if he were a ghost.  

John had heard that talking to coma patients supposedly helped them, could encourage their recovery; or at the very least, give them pleasant dreams.  John didn’t know him personally, so he could not weave his own anecdotes, but at the end of every shift, John would pull up a chair next to Sherlock’s bed and read him stories.  According to his records, he was a chemist.  He didn’t know what sort of stories chemists liked to read in their spare time, but he himself was fond of detective stories, so he would pack some of his favorites in his bag and read them to the unconscious man at the end of the day.  Wonderful tales of excitement, adrenaline, and adventure.  He hoped they painted pleasant dreams.

Halfway through that day’s chapter, Sherlock’s heart monitor started to increase.  John wasn’t really paying attention to it, until he saw Sherlock’s finger twitch at his side.  The doctor nearly jumped out of his seat.  Another twitch, then a complete flex of the hand.  With a throaty groan, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open to reveal the most impossibly bright blue-green eyes John had ever seen.  The man looked over to him, dazed and blinded by the bright hospital lights.

"John," He croaked, throat dry and rough from two years asleep.  The doctor couldn’t breathe.  This man wasn’t supposed to be awake yet.  And he knew his name?  "What happened?"  Sherlock asked, looking around.  "Moran, did he get away?"

Moran?  John looked down at the book in his lap.  The villain in this story was named Moran.  

Sherlock coughed, then moaned again.  ”These wires are uncomfortable.  Take them off.”

"Mr. Holmes," John began.  

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.  “‘Mr. Holmes?’”  He echoed, “Suddenly slipping back into formalities, John?  You haven’t called me that since we met.”

"Mr. Holmes," John repeated slowly, extending his hand to hold the patient’s, "You’re in hospital.  You’ve been in a coma for two years.  I don’t know who you think I am, but I can assure you we’ve never met.  I’m a doctor here at St. Bart’s."

Sherlock looked at him blankly.  Something seemed to click behind his impossibly bright eyes, and then he looked scared.  ”John Watson.”

"Yes."

"You’re not a soldier."

"I was, a long time ago.  I told you about myself when I first started visiting you."

"But we’re not," Sherlock swallowed, mulled things over, "We’re not friends."

"Not officially."  John offered him a warm smile.  "It’s nice to finally meet you, Sherlock.”

 

[xxx]

 

_(Fair warning, this fic contains spoilers for series 3.)_

Janine lay sprawled out on her couch, trying to take a nap after her book became too difficult to focus on.  Moving in to a new house was exhausting, no matter how beautiful the cottage was.  She smirked to herself when she remembered just how she got the money for it.  Well, Sherlock had it coming for manipulating her like that.  They were even.

A knock at the door interrupted her almost-slumber.  She glanced at the table next to the couch.  She kept a gun in the drawer there; no one she trusted would actually bother to knock.  But this was a new house; only a select few people actually knew to find her here yet.  After a moment of deliberation, she skipped it and headed to the door.

"Oh," A smile crept onto her features as she opened the door.  "I’m surprised at you, Jimmy.  I half expected you to just pick the lock."  She left the door open and glided across the floor back to the open living room to lay on the couch again.  Jim Moriarty stepped inside, wiping his shoes on the matt first and closing the door behind him.

"Figured I’d give you notice just this once," He said smoothly, "Though I am expecting a key."  

"Of course," she promised.  "So to what do I owe the honor of this visit?  I’m assuming you’re not just here to congratulate me on the house."

Jim sat down on the couch, lifting her outstretched legs and resettling them on his lap.  Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a newspaper.  “‘Shag-A-Lot Holmes?’”  He asked dubiously.

She laughed.  ”What?  Jealous I got there first?”

"A little," he admitted, "But also considering skinning him alive."

"His skin’s too pale to make a decent set of shoes," she chided.  "And anyway, nothing actually happened.  I tried - believe me, I tried - but he’s frustratingly celibate.  He might actually be asexual."

"Or gay."

"If he were gay then why’s John getting married to someone else?  You don’t stay straight when you’ve got a shot at  _that._ Sorry, big brother, but I don’t think you’ve got any better chance than I did.”

Jim grinned mischievously.  ”Oh, we’ll see.  I guarantee you the moment he discovers I’m still alive he’ll come running back to me.  He’s obsessed with me.”

Grinning back, Janine fluffed her hair and tucked her arm behind her head to better look at him.  ”No I rather think that’s you.”

He swatted her leg.  His gaze drifted into the open expanse of the room for a moment, lost in thought, before he reclined.  ”You’ll see,” he mumbled, half to himself, “The game will be different this time, better.  This time I’ll have him.”

 


End file.
